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You know, I loved Jiminy Cricket when I was little. I loved his little walking stick and his vest and his stovepipe hat. I thought he was adorable, but last night, I wanted to smash me some Jiminy guts. I wanted to pull his stovepipe hat over his eyes and stomp his buggy ass into grillo guacamole while screaming, "You can shove your conscience up your ass, Jiminy."
Why? Because there was a blackout at 3:30 in the morning(Way to go, utility company; it's reassuring to know that the lights go down every time a mole cricket farts on the intramural fields.), and as soon as the symphony of whirring air conditioners ground to a halt, an amorous cricket decided to announce his boner to the ladies as loudly as possible right outside the bedroom window.
I was not amused. In fact, I'm certain I looked like Ren Hoek fighting a lethal bowel impaction. My eyes bugged out, and I twitched and flailed impotently beneath my blanket until Roomie was roused from uneasy slumber.
"Whassa matter?" As if he couldn't hear the buggy serenade.
"Fucking cricket," I snarled. Because I'm so rational when the temperature in the bedroom is teetering at 88 degrees and I've not slept because the smoke detectors, which are wired into the electrical system, are chirping indignantly at me about the lack of power.
Roomie blearily went outside to see if he could spot Jiminy fucking Iglesias, or so he claimed. I suspect he wanted to get away from me before he succumbed to the voices in his head and smothered me to death. I can't blame him. I can be ridiculously, maddeningly unreasonable when stressed.
He wandered outside. I, meanwhile, opted to help the situation by howling at Jiminy Holmes to shut the fuck up. Apparently, I was so fervid that Roomie heard me outside and used all of his willpower not to laugh and wake the upstairs neighbor.
Jiminy did eventually button it, but only because he was terrified into silence by the sudden resumption of service and the accompanying drone of dozens of wall units rising from the dead. Either that, or Jiminy finally found a girl to give him a hummer in the bushes. Little screeching bastard. I wish I could rain Raid from the heavens.
I managed to fall asleep by eight in the morning and slept until after one, but I am not happy. Jiminy better lie low tonight, or my neighbors will be treated to a naked, crippled woman screaming obscenities into the hedge and spraying Raid between the leaves until it hangs in the air in a visible fog. Sure, I might pick off a toddler, but at least the damn bug will be dead as shit and sheetrock.
Why? Because there was a blackout at 3:30 in the morning(Way to go, utility company; it's reassuring to know that the lights go down every time a mole cricket farts on the intramural fields.), and as soon as the symphony of whirring air conditioners ground to a halt, an amorous cricket decided to announce his boner to the ladies as loudly as possible right outside the bedroom window.
I was not amused. In fact, I'm certain I looked like Ren Hoek fighting a lethal bowel impaction. My eyes bugged out, and I twitched and flailed impotently beneath my blanket until Roomie was roused from uneasy slumber.
"Whassa matter?" As if he couldn't hear the buggy serenade.
"Fucking cricket," I snarled. Because I'm so rational when the temperature in the bedroom is teetering at 88 degrees and I've not slept because the smoke detectors, which are wired into the electrical system, are chirping indignantly at me about the lack of power.
Roomie blearily went outside to see if he could spot Jiminy fucking Iglesias, or so he claimed. I suspect he wanted to get away from me before he succumbed to the voices in his head and smothered me to death. I can't blame him. I can be ridiculously, maddeningly unreasonable when stressed.
He wandered outside. I, meanwhile, opted to help the situation by howling at Jiminy Holmes to shut the fuck up. Apparently, I was so fervid that Roomie heard me outside and used all of his willpower not to laugh and wake the upstairs neighbor.
Jiminy did eventually button it, but only because he was terrified into silence by the sudden resumption of service and the accompanying drone of dozens of wall units rising from the dead. Either that, or Jiminy finally found a girl to give him a hummer in the bushes. Little screeching bastard. I wish I could rain Raid from the heavens.
I managed to fall asleep by eight in the morning and slept until after one, but I am not happy. Jiminy better lie low tonight, or my neighbors will be treated to a naked, crippled woman screaming obscenities into the hedge and spraying Raid between the leaves until it hangs in the air in a visible fog. Sure, I might pick off a toddler, but at least the damn bug will be dead as shit and sheetrock.
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